


Read Between The Lines

by Aris



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Derek Uses His Words, Happy Ending, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Self-Hatred, Soulmarks, Stiles Angst, Stiles-centric, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3668115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meeting your soulmate is meant to be one of the best experiences of your life. It's supposed to be happy, joyful, laughter and love, that ever-lingering potential finally budding. </p><p>Stiles knows that they don't get why he's not the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The sea's evaporating

**Author's Note:**

> First of, I'm sorry about my writing in general. This is all drafted and the ending kind of sucks, not helped by the fact I wrote this all in one night which is just unnatural and scary.
> 
> Secondly, this is a distraction from a big fic I'm trying to write (15-20k) which I need a beta for *cough* and am stuck on a plot point for, so it'll be a while. 
> 
> And thirdly, the title is from Soulmates Never Die by Placebo, because this trope deserves it.
> 
> *tiny trigger: self hate in general, also rape is alluded to, but doesn't actually take place.

Stiles has 'DH' inscribed below his third rib on his right side. 

The writing is small and looks more like it's been carved into him than written with a black pen, the way the edges are ragged only seem to carry that theory further - the D is slightly bigger than the H and both letter slant slightly to the right in a neat scrawl... or carving. A scrawled carving. It's inconvenient, Stiles figures, having his soulmark on his chest. He could never take off his shirt in front of his friends, always changing in the cubicles for PE and eventually lacrosse practise; it's a thing. Not showing people your mark. Under 18, it's generally considered inappropriate. Stiles sort of gets why. 

Scotts is on his right arm. He showed it to Stiles the day he met Allison Argent, and the joined KY on his arm didn't match, but Allison has a SM on her right ankle. Scott told him it was in blue, an unusual thing for a soulmark, and it makes Stiles wonder.

_DH._

###### 

When Stiles looks at the bigger picture, it's amazing how many soulmates there are. A 75% match rate of all the registered people on earth - 5,750,000,000 people matched. Another 10% are widowed, or their soulmate died before they found them, and the rest are waiting, or not waiting. It's a risk marrying the person that doesn't have that little part of you scrawled on their skin anywhere, but it happens. And Stiles must think it would eat away at you everyday, gnaw on your heart, knowing that out there there is someone for you. Just for you. Tailored and made and perfected and yours, all yours. But you chose someone else instead, and any minute you could find your soulmate. They could be married, too, or they could be dead. Or hurt. Or... or on the other side of the world.

There are stories. A man who saw his soulmate mark on the wrist of a girl in the background of a news program, coming out a rave. She was in Russia, and he was in America, and they found each other, and they couldn't speak, but they could love. And it tugs a bit at Stiles's heart strings, makes that soft bit of him that he likes to pretend doesn't exist pulse against his ribcage, long for someone with the unjoined initials of his name to show up at his door, smiling about some impossible situation where they saw his soulmark. He can't picture what they would look like, a grey anonymous figure in his head. A beautiful, non binary being of light? An older woman with a 9-5 office job, who can't cook but loves to hike. Someone with a sharp mouth who can keep up, or someone quiet and slow who doesn't mind being left behind, who only wants to listen.

He wants to brush it off as a fantasy, but it happens all the time. Everyday. People find their soulmate and every little atom of their being falls in love just a little bit, and keeps falling love until the day they die. 

That's how his dad has described it. Said every morning he would wake up, and he would find something new about Claudia to love. The wrinkle of her eyelids, the way some of her eyelashes bent to the side rather than up, the rough skin she got on her knees when she didn't rub sweet smelling cream over them and the ragged end of her nails when she picked at them or tore them against something harder. He said it reminded him that she was alive and always changing, always giving him something more and different and her to love. 

Sheriff Stilinski had been drunk at the time, but the tears welling up in his eyes and the red of his skin as it gripped against the tumbler told Stiles it was all true. All very real. The way his dad always is when he's had a few drinks.

So - Stiles can't pretend what he craves isn't real, doesn't happen. Can't say it's a film trope or a book hook, can't lie to himself and think it's just an exaggeration for poets and songwriters to angst over. He wants to, that self-destructive streak that's been there since his mum's death egging him on, he wants to rip it to pieces and stamp on it until it's dead and broken. Because he deserves that, because he robbed his dad of that love and he doesn't deserve to have that for himself.

It makes him feel ragged at the edges. Like he's bitter and tarnished and should never show his soulmark or try and guess, never subject imself to maybes (Domonick Havvok in the year above? Dana Houx, the french exchange student who stayed for 3 weeks? or-) or wish for more. Because his dad is cut in half, and Stiles should stay that way too, to make things fair. Even. 

He can't look after his dad if he's out with lovesick eyes and dreamy thoughts, can't cook when he's out on dates, watch his dad's health while he's trying to match soulmarks on those white-and-blue dating websites. 

He has to be responsible.

Besides, the person who gets Stiles as their soulmate is better off without him.

###### 

Stiles knows that Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore are soulmates. He knows because he's seen Jackson's back when he's changing for Lacrosse practice. Jackson doesn't hide, doesn't cover the elegant rise and fall of 'LM' on his back. Not like Stiles does. Jackson always strips as soon as he gets into the locker rooms, like he wants everyone to know that him and Lydia Martin are a forever kind of deal, even though no one ever questions it.

And Stiles slinks off into the cubicles, staring down at his pasty, skinny body and wondering what kind of person carves their first initials into something rather than writes it. In other places around the world, where writing equipment isn't rife, the original way of finding soulmates still exists. The first mark that person makes on the world, the first thing that is innately their own - a tattoo, a scarification, or even a small cut they get while doing something that means a lot to them. It's funny, and strange, because their soulmates always gets it before they do. It happens here, too, with children who can't write or hold a pen. They fall while trying to colour in a drawing of their mum, and cut their arm but then the scar never fades away and turns to black, or blue or whatever other colour the mark takes. And their soulmate is born with that little scar, and it's a beautiful wonder.  
He wonders if his soulmates lives somewhere far away where they carve their writing into wood, or into stone. The initials are in english script, so they're not from... hell. Stiles doesn't know where around the world they use different scripts. He doesn't know anything because he hasn't looked into it. He doesn't want to know.

He doesn't.

So, he pulls his jersey over his chest and takes a moment to just breathe, listening to the talk and clash of the rest of the team getting ready. His forehead is pressed against the cubicle door and it's cooling, and an immediate pressure in a way that'll become uncomfortable soon.

The more he tells himself he's not worthy of it, should just forget about it and move on, the more he seems to think about it, the more his eyes seem to catch the marks of those who don't hide it. He sees couples, now, more than ever, together, pressing marks or holding hands or just existing in eachothers space. It aches. It aches because he wants it, but not because he won't find it, but because he can't let himself have it.

He could be the 25%. They could be dead and gone. You never know, when they die. The mark doesn't fade away, you don't get some mystical dream and you don't just _know_. 

But somehow, that hurts less.

###### 

Stiles doesn't even think about Derek Hale until he throws Scotts inhaler at his chest.

"Dude, that's Derek Hale," he says to Scott and then... _DH_? And his heart speeds up a little, because it fits. It's in the age range that soulmates tend to revolve around, within seven years, and he isn't from fucking france, and he's totally scary and badass enough to carve his name into stuff. Like, onto knives. He's also very, very attractive and very, very male, which Stiles is happy about because he's not sure how he feels about women. Other than Lydia Martin.

Stiles wouldn't mind.

Derek probably would.

The man turns back briefly at Stiles next words, about the fire, and he locks his gaze with him, all smouldering angry and probably more repressed issues than Stiles could count on ten sets of hands.

Yeah.

Better off not knowing.

###### 

Except he can't stop thinking about it.

With Damien and Dana and the other handful he tries not to remember, he looked at them and felt nothing, only held an idea of their possibility. Of their potential to mean something. But that was a soulmate was - a potential for perfection. A rich, deep potential, people call it. Stiles doesn't know what that's supposed to feel like, but it feels wrong to attribute that to the mild interest he's had towards the others.

And, Derek? 

Well.

Stiles really wouldn't mind. 

It's all physical, for while the others are average to good looking, Derek is model material. Derek has a symmetric face and a sleekly trimmed beard and this beautiful, straight nose and an absolute brow and a jaw that's so precise it could cut glass. Stiles wants that face between his legs, tongue slick against his skin, and he wants that face pressed against his neck while Derek fucks him. Hard. So hard he cries and has like, an epiphany about life.

He's pretty sure he could have an epiphany about life on Derek Hales dick.

And when his mind wanders to cuddling, how warm he bets Derek always despite how cold he seems, what sort of movies Derek likes and whether he reads a lot or not at all - when his mind does that, he buries his face into his warm and bites down on his skin until all he thinks about is the pain.

###### 

Stiles is good at taking things in his stride. 

Werewolves are a thing, that exists. He doesn't let it go that he guessed it right before Scott, even if it was a joke (Derek almost smiles sometimes when he brings it up, and Stiles bets he heard him say it,) and humour is the thing that he has to cling through to make everything feel alright. Banshees, kanima, dead people, _disappointing his dad._

Because his dad almost loses his job, and it's all Stiles fault. First he takes his mother from him, then he tries to take his job away, and it's a wonder that is was any hallucination at all that yelled at him at Lydia's party, and not the real thing. Though he knows his dad is too good for that, will take it out on himself before he ever takes it out on his son. He knows because he did the same when his mum died, drank and muttered to himself but never said a bad thing to Stiles, despite it being all Stiles's fault.

But Stiles still manages to make jokes, to make his dad look bad in front of everyone. Can't stop getting himself in trouble - if the Sheriff can't look after his own kid, keep him in line, how is he supposed to take care of the whole town?

His dad is a better man than him, and that's something he knows for sure now. Because Stiles could kill someone, now, and not feel bad if they were evil enough. He could kill someone and he could torture someone, and he would do anything for the people he loves, even he if he ends up on the other side of the law than them. It's his medium ground with Peter, the mutual recognition that Peter isn't inherently bad for protecting and avenging his family. The sick realisation that Stiles probably would have done the same in his place, would have torn through person after person to nail Kate Argent into the ground, maybe even raze her family to their very foundations in some kind of eye-for-an-eye deal, if he could. If he was Peter.

And he would kill Peter, too, for hurting Lydia. For hurting Scott. Because they are precious to him now, in ways he never thought they could be. Because you're not a true best friend until you kidnap people together, until you try and kill for them. And Lydia - Lydia isn't a stupid crush anymore. Lydia is fierce and beautiful and not for Stiles, not in that way. Because he knows now that while they're not romantically entwined, would never be after she met Jackson, they are friends. Good friends. And Stiles will protect his friends.

They are better than him, purer than him, and he's dirty and ragged and guilty, and he'll keep taking the punches for them, to keep them brilliant and alive.

Even if it lowers him in their eyes, sometimes. Even if they don't know it.

###### 

The Nogitsune takes this capability in him, the willingness to kill and hurt, and it maximises on it. The others, they act like - like the Nogitsune is a totally different being taking over Stiles body, storing him conveniently away. But no, no no. There are holes in these lockers where he's been shoved, gaps where he leaks through and the Nogitsune wraps around it. Twisting the knife in Scott - resentment. Ever since Allison, Stiles has been a second thought to him, a briefly beneficial sidekick to his plot arch. Scott never asked why Stiles had a split lip and a bruised cheekbone, never thought to ask how Stiles felt when the Sheriff was temporarily out of play. Because Scott was the hero, the main character, so Stiles listens to the squelch of his organs as they are cut by the blade they hold.

He's glad Jackson is in London, because he thinks he'd kill them. They'd kill him. The Nogitsune wants to kill everyone.

And being alone with Lydia? God, Lydia. His feelings, the old ones, are dug up and twisted into some perverted and ugly. The things the Nogitsune wants to do - _they_ want to do. Stiles bangs against the metal door in his mind and begs it, _no, no._ He can feel his breath fanning against Lydia's cheek, can feel the way she's trapped and how her hair slides between his fingers. He can do anything. It wants to do _everything _. And there's that tiny piece of Stiles that wants to, too. And that's what makes it so sick, so fucking wrong. This is why he's never the hero, because he could be the villain. So easily. One wrong move and he could be the bad guy, and he'd never know because it would look right, to him.__

__But this isn't him._ _

__This isn't him._ _

__It can't be._ _

__But in the end, it's still Scott that saves the day. That saves Stiles from this version of himself. But now that Stiles knows it's there, even as it shatters in front of his eyes, he won't forget it. It's in him somewhere, rotting so slowly it'll never quite fade away - waiting to get a grip, to stuff out the fever. And he hates himself for it. Because it's nothing more than himself, his possibilities. It repulses him, makes his skin crawl, and he locks it away carefully, shovels the rot into a strong wooden box and locks it with padlock after padlock. But he still knows it's there._ _

__Still hates himself that tiny bit more._ _

###### 

__And then, he sees it._ _


	2. They're explosions in the sky

It's summer. In California, this means it's almost unbearably warm - the heat is suffocating against his skin, and Stiles carefully applies suntan lotion anytime he leaves the house because his skin is fair and blemished, which his dad tells him is just a recipe for disaster. He doesn't like how it feels, sticky and unpleasant (not to mention the smell, which Stiles just doesn't dig) and he's not particularly bothered about getting burnt himself, complained loudly a few times about having to do it and not being a kid anymore, but his dad left the newspaper open when he left for work one morning, and there an article about increased risk of skin cancer in those with skin blemishes like moles right at the top of the left page.

He never complains about it, again.

The Pack is more together now, after everything, a little softer at the edges. They're trying to exist together in a way that isn't about life and death, is just - just _nice_ , and Pack-like, and normal. Stiles doesn't consider himself Pack, is too human, but Scott and Lydia are his only friends and they are Pack, and Stiles hates himself but not enough to exclude himself all the time. It's worse when he's alone. 

Plus, he doesn't like to worry his dad by thinking he's spending the whole summer alone.

There's a lake, near the old Hale house, that Derek claims is good for swimming. It's very good for swimming as it turns out. Stiles wonders if Derek knows because his family used to play here, in summers a long time ago, and there's a twinge in his chest that reminds him of MRI scans and hospital beds, when he looks at Derek's face.

Scott is ecstatic about the prospect of water, dives in almost head first when they arrive, Kira on his trail only slightly more reserved but smiley cutely with lit-up eyes. Lydia only sits on the shore, letting the shallow water envelop her legs and nothing else. She looks - elegant, beautiful, exterrestrial in a silver bikini, hat perfectly situated to block out the sun and obnoxiously big sunglasses seated on her nose. Her nail polish is red on both her hands and toes, and she settles down to read a book in moments. It looks like light reading for her, only just smaller than a dictionary and Stiles briefly feels like he's in love with her again, but it's gone in a flash.

Boyd lets Erica drag him into the water, holds her waist and throws her as she bossily instructs, looking generally content to live in the same space as her, occupy the air around her. Stiles sees the mark on his shoulder, the E visible but the rest obscured by the sun shining from his skin. He'd best his life it's a R, right after that E.

It makes his stomach twist a little, well - it could be the sight of Derek hale without his shirt on - which is nothing new - but he is also missing his jeans. And wow. Those legs. Strong, corded muscle visible. Very nice - uh, aesthetically pleasing. He's not even sure what those strong legs could do to him, but Stiles knows he wants it. Bad. 

Derek turns to face him, maybe because of the massive wave of arousal coming off of Stiles like it's nobodies business, and that's when Stiles sees it.

'GS' in a very, very familiar scrawl, on Derek's thigh. His right thigh to be specific. 

And then it sort of hits because -

It's Derek.

Derek is his soulmate.

And maybe he's staring, at Derek's fucking thigh, because oh my god, why didn't he tell him?

"Stiles?"

But Derek wouldn't know, would he? He wouldn't know Stiles's real name, his first name. And Derek wouldn't know he has DH carved into his right side, below the third rib. And he probably doesn't want to know, so Stiles's heart needs to slow the fuck down and the blood needs to leave his face right fucking now. 

"Stiles?"

He finally looks up to Derek - who, woah, is a lot closer than he was before.

"Are you alright?" he asks, intense and somehow still gloomy with the sun out and his pack frolicking in the water like a bunch of puppies It's one of Derek's many talents, being consistently The Guy With The Backstory and Stiles kind of hates him for it now. For creating that contrast where he's Stiles, stupid gangly Stiles, and Derek is -- Derek. 

"Your, uh. Your soulmark. I couldn't help notice - it's. It's the, uh, initials of my name." Derek looks down at it like he's never seen it before, brow furrowed, "My, uh, my handwriting too. That's... that's..." This is a mistake. He is making a really big mistake right now and his mouth is not under his control, not at all. Because Derek Hale is his _soulmate._

Derek meets his eyes. They flash briefly red, and oh no. Not good. not good at all.

"Stiles," he sounds on the edge of anger, or is that just his voice? "What is your soulmark? Is it a carv-"

"I gotta go. I need to go." Stiles scrambles up, his limbs and mouth abruptly deciding to obey him and launch him backwards. He grabs his bag up from besides him, hoping it's closed and nothing falls out, and slings it over his shoulder, all the while creating distance between him and Derek; a very _emotional_ looking Derek. Oh god, oh god. He wasn't going to swim, given his soulmark - thing. So he's all fully dressed and had planned on, you know, doing some of the summer work and just basking in the presence of his friends and appreciating Lydia in all her glory. He has everything together, and he doesn't look at Derek as he goes by, can't look at him, but there's no purpose behind that because Derek doesn't make a grab at him. Doesn't make to stop him.

He doesn't want the confirmation from Stiles. Doesn't want Stiles as his soulmate. It hurts, like Stiles knew it always would, but he ignores it as best he can until he is in his car and half the way home, the journey a blur.

He pulls over into the start of a trail in the woods, stares at the wheel in his hand, and starts to cry.

###### 

Scott texts him:

**WTF? Derek is ur soulmate?  
** **i clld ur dad ur where r u??**  
**stiles????**

Great. Scott freaked out. And probably told his dad Derek Hale, former accused murderer and known werewolf Alpha, is his soulmate. 100% perfect for him. Compatible. It has to be a sick joke. Stiles wishes it was one of those fake cases when they have the matching initials but the handwriting is all wrong, but he knows that is his writing on Derek's thigh. He used to write his name just like that at the top of all his drawings he did for his mum, and he still has them tucked away in a box in his room - sometimes he looks at them, what he drew for his mum and he's memorised every little shitty crayon line, including his initials at the top (his full name was a bit too hard for him to write at that age). 

And Derek had sounded like he was going to say 'carved' i.e. the exact state of Stiles's soulmark. So it's near impossible it's not Derek's initials dug into chest. He's Derek Hale's soulmate. He's skinny, and loud, and he's the bad side of pale and hates how his moles never let his skin be completely smooth; he's lanky and ugly and he can't coordinate his awkward body, can't make himself move with grace, so he hurts everything around him and himself and he hates who he is, hates it so much. He wants to shut up, but he can't, because he's Stiles fucking Stilinski and he was born without a filter, and it annoys him as much as it annoys everyone else that he can't just. Stop. For a second. Just stop vocalising everything and just fucking listen, just shut the fuck up. And now he's somebodies soulmate.

He's crying again, into the edge of his car seat this time, curled around the door, when his ringtone starts to go off. He wipes his cheeks with shaking hands, feelings how cold the digits are against his warmed skin, and looks at the caller ID. It's just dad - with a heart, because he got sentimental one time. He swallows down harshly and picks up, bringing it to his ear.

"Stiles? Son?" The voice is tinny.

"Hey, dad," Stiles answers weakly, in a way that he realises isn't reassuring in the least.

"Where the hell are you? Are you alright? Scott is saying -"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, dad," he interrupts, then pauses, readjusting his hold on his phone, "I just needed some alone time, you know. Cry things out. And uh - whatever Scott has said, is probably true. And if he hasn't told you yet, I think - I think Derek Hale is my soulmate. He, uh, has my name, my real one, and the handwriting..." his voice catches at the end and he coughs into his hand instead of finishing, feeling the burn in his eyes again. It's not fair that he gets this offered to him, gets it dangled in front of his eyes but knows he can't have it. A soulmate. A chance to be whole. Because he doesn't deserve it, and Derek deserves better and - it's so fucking unfair Stiles can't breathe.

"Son. Stiles - Stiles, calm down. You're okay. It's fine. Tell me where you are, I'll come and get you. Scott can drive the jeep back, okay? Just tell me where you are." 

"'m fine dad, I can -"

He's talked over, "Scott says he can find you. Just sit tight. We'll be there soon. Promise me you'll stay there."

Stiles promises.

###### 

Meeting your soulmate is meant to be one of the best experiences of your life. It's supposed to be happy, joyful, laughter and love, that ever-lingering potential finally budding.

Stiles knows that they don't get why he's not the same.

His dad shoots him concerned looks the whole way back, but Stiles just curls miserably into Lydias side and tries not to think about the way he's burying his head into her shoulder is too alike to the way the Nogitsune held her. He keeps his hands to himself, just in case, curled around his torso. He can't trust himself. But he also needs the comfort. He knows Lydia cares, knows she's the only one who might understand, because Jackson left and she says she doesn't care, but Stiles is beginning to suspect it might have left a whole.

They get back to his house, and Lydia ruins his plans by taking his hand and squeezing it. He thinks she's going to stay, wants her to, but she doesn't. Scott lingers a while, watching him hug his legs on the sofa, but his dad shoes him out and then it's just the two of them, sitting together.

The sheriff sighs.

"You have to tell me what's wrong Stiles, because I thought you would be excited to meet your soulmate. You always... always talked about it a lot when you were little, you know? Not so much now, but..." His dad puts his hand on his knee, and Stiles stares at the rough skin, the callouses from handling guns. It used to make him feel safe, knowing his dad was the Sheriff and had access to guns, used to make him feel protected. But now, there's things that a regular bullet won't take out, there's things that'll hurt his dad to get to him, get to the Pack. He's not so safe anymore.

"... He doesn't want me, dad." He takes his hands away from his legs and presses the heels of them into his eyes,"'m just a hyperactive little bastard," His voice quivers when he whispers it, silently mocking the words his not-dad said to him. For a moment, his dad doesn't' reply, and his heart rate picks up a notch too high and the sofa feels far away; then he's being pulled into a hug, pressed against his dads chest, and something breaks a little in his chest, grounds him a little harder.

"... and I, I - I don't deserve a soulmate. D-Dad I don't, he needs someone... not me, I'm so-" He's shaking now, emotional climbing his throat rudge by rudge, clinging to his dads neck and burrowing his face into the shirt of his uniform. He has to tell him. He has to know he's not good for Derek, that he's good for no-one. "I killed her. I'm s-sorry, I killed her, I killed her," _I killed my mum. It was all my fault. I ruined everything for you. Now all you have is this pathetic-_

"Stiles! Stiles, Stiles - no." He pulls Stiles away and grabs his face, looking into his eyes earnstly, "No, no no. Son, you didn't kill her. It wasn't you. How could you think that? You can't blame yourself - it, it was the other driver." He runs his thumb over his cheekbones, but Stiles can't meet his eyes, is shaking his head, "Son - please. You didn't kill her. It's not your fault, listen to me - it's not your fault. You loved her, we loved her. You didn't kill her, you were six - you couldn't have done anything. Please, son,"

Stiles just cries harder at his fathers begging, at his words, and feels kind of empty. Like he's just poured every out a little too fast, and now it's slipping away between the bones of his ribcage and in the fluid of his tears, and he wants it all back so bad, and maybe then he won't float away like he feels like he might.

His dad kisses his forehead and brings him back in again, murmuring softly now.

"Jesus Stiles, how long have you been thinking this? It wasn't you at all. Things like this, they just happen, and it's not our fault, kid." His hand comes to rest steadily on his back, warm through the material of his shirt "I thought it was my fault for a while, too. I bought her the car, and she always said she didn't like driving but I wanted her to be independant -"

"Dad it - wasn't. Like that. I called her, I'm the reason she-"

"Shhhh, son. If it's your fault for calling her, it's my fault for getting her the car. In not our fault. It wasn't us who crashed into her. She - Claudia, your mother, wouldn't won't us to blame ourselves. She'd want us to - to live on. In her memory. She always wanted the best for you, you know. She wouldn't want... this. She wouldn't."

It's past 1am before Stiles makes it to bed. 

He doesn't look at the drawings he drew her. He doesn't.

###### 

It's an odd dance, from there.

Scott comes round, and he tries to talk about it but Stiles can talk circles around anyone on a good day, and they end up playing Call of Duty and ordering pizza instead. He knows his dad is relieved to hear them joking around when he gets back in from a long shift later on, because Stiles has been wallowing a bit lately. Can't sleep, only cooks portions for one and leaves them for his dad. He wasn't in love with Derek or anything but-

Stiles himself isn't sure how he feels. His chest still seems empty from last night, and there's a tight ache he thinks he's imagining around his soulmark where the realisation of Derek's rejection lurks. Because when he thinks about it, and he tries not to, as much as Stiles didn't want to find his soulmate, he always thought he would anyway, and he always thought it would be perfect. That they would love him even if he is - everything he is. He liked to think he set himself up for rejection, but he had no idea. Not really.

Derek hasn't tried to contact him once. Didn't try to stop him leaving, didn't track him afterwards even though Stiles knew he easily could. It feels like Derek just wants to forget it all and pretend it didn't happen, so he doesn't have to be bound to Stiles for the rest of his life. He wonders, briefly, if he cut the soulmate mark out of his chest, it would grow back on the skin there.

He doesn't try, but he clings to the thought he could. If he wanted to.

###### 

Another week goes by. Scott only drops by a few times on his own, and Lydia has called twice to tell him he's an idiot who needs to talk to Derek. Stiles does not need a confirmation of his rejection, thank you very much, and refuses to do so - in which Lydia begins to call him by his second name and makes all number of threats he knows she will never carry out. Another other day he would be happy to do what she says - but this?

He can't.

But apparently Derek Hale can, and Stiles doesn't have much choice in his own can't because said werewolf is crawling through his window right now and holy fuck Stiles is in his boxers and a Star Wars tshirt and hasn't showered for days.

"Stiles,"

He just stares because - Derek might have gotten more attractive since he'd last seen him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. (Also because he just broke into his room, seriously, when will he grow out of that?)

"Derek. Hi. How you doin', you old wolfman, you." He winced instantly after speaking, wanting to bury his head back under his cover. Oh my god, smooth. Nice one. Wolfman, seriously. Definitely not the way to greet someone who - no. Nope. Didn't happen. 

"Stiles, I." Derek gulps, avoids his gaze and pointedly stares at his shoes. He looks almost bashful, which is something Stiles never thought he'd see. A bashful Alpha werewolf. Who is his soulmate. And is really hot. This could be a dream.

"Lydia said you thought I rejected you. I didn't. I thought you would need... space." He ends the sentence awkwardly, like he's not sure he really means what he's saying, and Stiles's heart sinks a little further down into his chest. He would bet good money Lydia put him up to this. Probably wants his awkward affection off her and onto someone else.

"So I could get over you? Move to the moon? Hit 70 and die alone with a house of cats?"

Derek just frowns at him, eyes finally coming up from the floor.

"You're my soulmate, Stiles. I want to be with you, but only if you want to be with me, too."

A rush of emotion hits Stiles all at once, and he feels a little like he's going to faint. Because first off, Derek wants him? Derek just said he wants to be with him -as in, be soulmates. Together. Derek and Stiles as in, both of them with each other. Not separate. But that does not fit into his previous Stiles Agenda which included a lot of glaring, a no-touchy policy and playing Pinata with his already delicate self esteem. Also leaving him alone with Peter, the resident creep. Not conductive to a positive relationship. 

"What?" Luckily, his mouth has him covered. Kind of.

Derek starts forward towards him, bringing Stiles attention to the fact that he's still in his boxers and Star Wars tshirt, still hasn't showered in days and is in his bed. Because he had been trying to sleep before. Derek is coming towards his bed. Derek Hale is coming - Derek Hale is sitting on his bed. 

Derek Hale has put his hand on his. 

He is almost holding Derek Hales hand.

"What the fuck?" Derek look almost offended at that, and starts to take his hand back. Stiles quickly scrambled to grab at it, linking in his fingers and using the other handle to settle over the top of Derek's. His skin looks sickly against Derek's, looks wrong. Stiles feels like a vampire, leaking his warmth and colour. 

"No - not like. That." He stares at Derek a bit harder, "I just. Are you being for real right now, Derek? You want to be with me?" And it sort of has to be a joke. A big joke. A joke from the universe itself. He is going to kill Lydia. To death.

"You're my soulmate," Derek replies, like that's an answer at all. Stiles makes a frustrated sound.

"No, you idiot. Do you want to be with me? Or are you just doing this because we're soulmates? Or because Lydia wants me off her back? Do you like me, Stiles Stilinski, resident lanky motor mouth? Because if you're just saying this because -"

Derek kisses him.

Right.

Where was he.

"- because we're soulmates, then - what the fuck?"

This time, Derek smiles. And it's kind of beautiful.

"My wolf knew before I did. Told me you were my mate, but your name didn't start with a G, and I didn't know if wolf mates were the same as soulmates," he pauses, his eyes tracing Stiles's face "I'm glad they are."

Stiles knows he's grinning stupidly, can feel his mouth stretching to the point of pain. Derek Hale is talking and using his words to express emotions, and like, provide context to said emotions. Not even Lydia Martin could make this happen. There's no way she had _that_ good material on Derek.

"So, we're soulmates. Real soulmates?"

"Yeah. We are."

"No take-backsies?"

"I'm not even sure that's a thing with soulmates, Stiles."

"Derek, no take-backsies."

"Fine. No take-backsies."

This time, Stiles kisses Derek.

And if he accidentally knocks their teeth together, and bites down on Derek's tongue when he gets a little overexcited, that's nobody's business but his own.

And Derek's, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! 
> 
> Told you the ending was kind of bad. But it was a quick fic for me to exercise my feelings. A bit.
> 
> Anyway, it's officially my birthday - a LOTR marathon awaits me. Hope you enjoyed the fic and [check out my tumblr](http://norsed.tumblr.com) (prompt me more)


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